Normally
by themuller
Summary: In a world where male omegas are treated as mere sex objects, Q has defied all odds and carved out a life and place, he can call his own. Or so he thinks. Being an alpha with a secret, Bond has trust issues that run deeper than being a double-oh and working for MI6. Neither is in search of a bond-mate.
1. Chapter 1

**Author note: This is an entry for the 00Q Reverse Big Bang 2018-2019. It is inspired by the wonderful artwork of Only_1_Truth. You can find the artwork on the** tumblr **:** 00qreversebang **together with a lot of other fanart and stories.**

It is a high-end club in the centre of London. For once, Bond is pleased with the location for a stakeout. His target is supposed to arrive a few hours later, giving Bond ample time to locate possible exit routes and perfect places to hide and observe. As he walks past the bar, he notices a subtle movement out of the corner of his eyes. Without missing a step, he continues his walk as if he is unaware of the male omega, who has stopped and turned to watch him walk by. The omega tilts his head in a submissive, instinctive gesture as Bond passes him.

He hides a shudder and mingles with the crowd in front of him. The man is wearing a collar and a leash is attached to its single D-ring. It is a delicate, almost beautiful, metal chain, which clearly marks him as property. Bond closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Surprised, he opens his eyes. The expected sweetness of the scent is paired with a homely feeling, safe and trustworthy. He continues walking without looking back.

Eventually, he finds a spot in the shadows from which he can observe the omega and his handler. Or owner. Hard to tell from the distance. The other man, by all means and appearances an alpha, holds the other end of the leash loosely in his hand.

Bond stops behind one of the columns surrounding the vast dance floor, which is already packed with people. As he watches, the omega leans into the alpha's personal space. The two of them are discussing, laughing even. Bond frowns and wonders. There is nothing submissive in the omega's stance, nor is the alpha trying to dominate. Take away the leash and collar, and they would just be friends hanging out. First impressions can deceive, Bond knows better than most. Still, it puzzles him when he realises that the two men at the bar, in fact, behave like good friends. There is nothing sexual about their interactions, not even the slightest sign of flirting.

Well, he thinks delighted, this might be more interesting than expected.

He waves at one of the staff and has a drink in his hand a few minutes later. Never letting the pair at the bar out of his sight, Bond finds a better vantage point, settling down at a small table, placed a step or two above the dancing floor, giving him a perfect view of the room at large.

The club is crammed with people now. Writhing, touching, and bouncing to the music. There is a short break in the music. A new DJ takes over, and Bond watches as the omega listens and indicates towards the dance floor. The alpha shrugs his shoulders. A few moments later, the omega walks onto the dance floor. Expectantly Bond takes a small sip from his drink, watching every move of the omega.

He reaches a small opening in the crowd and tentatively moves his arms as if trying out the mobility of his limbs. He closes his eyes, just sways to the music at first. Slowly, his arms become part of the sway, a bit awkward at first, still in search of the rhythm. Then, like a cascade of water, his arms are thrown into the air and his whole body performs a fluid downward motion. Arms and legs becoming part of this wave, open and yet contained in the smooth flow of his body. His red collar is clearly visible on his pale, elegant neck; his face framed by a mop of black, unruly hair. As he is dancing, he creates a small space around him. Fingers, hands, feet, and legs are in constant motion, following the lead of the music. He is immersed in the rhythm, heedless of onlookers and other dancers. Still, he keeps his distance, steers clear of other people. He dances because he likes it. This is not a show-off. There is no enticing coquetry to lure amorous alphas. He doesn't dance for somebody, not waiting for someone to dance with him.

Bond watches with blatant interest, now. This is not a dancer. The moves are created in the moment, not as a part of a rehearsed choreography. Sometimes, the almost cringeworthy awkwardness is back. A hop is overdone; the shaking too much. But Bond is captivated, fascinated by the inherent freedom and independence this dance seems to signify.

As the music intensifies the man's efforts become increasingly passionate and fiery, the crescendo reaching its peak–and then the music stops. As does he. Standing still, a bit out of breath with closed eyes, he takes his time to let the silence sink in. When he eventually opens his eyes, he looks around, embarrassed and self-conscious. Flustered, he slowly walks back to his stool at the bar.

Despite his initial resentments, Bond feels a pang of regret. He is on a stakeout, his target will arrive soon, and once that happens, he will be on his way out of London to wherever this mission will take him. And the male omega, now back at the bar, the leash securely attached, will become one more of Bond's 'what could have been's'. The romantic fiction of a lasting relationship, build on trust instead of plain lust or necessity.

Bond nurses his drink, thinking about his past relationships. Vesper and her betrayal; the countless women and men, omegas and alphas, the occasional beta, he has shared his bed with, always wary, sometimes hopeful. He casts another glance at the omega, who sits with his back to the bar, watching the people, smiling and talking with the alpha beside him. And Bond is reminded of the laughter and banter he shared with the one person, he ever really trusted. The one person, who held his heart in her hands, vulnerable and open. Closing his eyes, he senses her, her scent, her soft hair. The mischievous smile on her face as they make their escape from Blofeld's henchmen.

Tracy.

She knew. She knew everything. About him.

He swallows and blinks his eyes open.

Bond leaves the club one hour later, following his target out into the warm August night.


	2. Chapter 2

What a day. And night. And one more day? Q has lost track. All he wants to do is get back to his flat and be left alone. Hopefully, he will be able to get some sleep, before his heat drags him under for good. And a shower. Definitely a shower!

Tanner has hovered by his side for a while already. But Q has insisted on finishing what he started a few days ago. This includes the upload of the reconfigured databases and the restart of several of MI6's security systems.

"Tanner!"

Q's guardian arrives and he sounds furious. Q hides his head behind the large computer screen and Tanner squares his shoulders.

"Bert," Tanner greets the guardian, the pretence of cheerfulness all too obvious.

"Why is Q still at his workstation? Thought, we'd an agreement?"

"I'm ready, Bert. Sorry," Q apologises.

The preliminary report is written and sent. He shuts down his machines and puts his laptop in his bag. Bert gives Tanner an angry stare before he turns his attention to Q.

"Not your fault, pet."

Taking the leash from the small glass bowl on Q's desk, he frowns. Q looks away. He is tired, so very tired.

"You've already put on your collar, pet? That bad?" Bert asks gently.

Q sighs and nods, too weary to explain anything. He lifts his head, so Bert can attach the leash.

"Let's get you home."

Q stumbles into the lift without another word. The pungent smell of his pheromones fills the air, and he can see Bert adjusting himself. Q mumbles another apology. Bert places his hand on Q's neck.

"No need to apologise, pet. They should have called me much earlier!"

Q shakes his head, but leans into Bert's hand. He soaks up the warmth of another body. Closes his eyes and tries to summon his most favourite fantasy.

His white knight holding him close, caressing him. The alpha in the white suit. Who walked past him without giving him so much as a glance. Back at the club Bert took Q to celebrate the finalisation of Q's permanent employment at MI6.

Q tries to concentrate, focus on that brief, exquisite moment back then. The music; the scent, this mix of alluring and spicy, slightly strange flavours; the handsome rugged face. The piercing blue eyes.

Q knows the music is wrong. The song he remembers was played later that night. When he danced. But it's always this song that sparks his recollection.

But his mind is utter chaos, blurring fantasy and reality.

The alpha in the white suit gets mixed up with the voices and sounds from the past hours; a shadow, running for his life; Tanner, trying to calm Boothroyd; Norwegian diplomats shooting Russian agents; police cars and code, so much code. And the voice. In Q's mind, the voice becomes his white knight from the club.

It feels as if the lift takes forever to reach the top floor. Q staggers out, fumbling with his keys. He tries to unlock the door, but fails to get the right key into the lock. After a few attempts, Bert takes pity on him and opens the door with his key. Q looks thankfully, unable to form a sentence. Bert just smiles knowingly, then passes him the end of the leash.

"You're sure, you don't want any help, pet?" he asks.

Q nods. As much as he wants to–and he knows, Bert would help him through the heat, being professional and all–Q also knows that Bert would have to face a jealous husband. And Q likes Ernest, he really does. They are good together, Bert. And Ernest. Ernest and Bert.

Q leans against the open door just staring into the void, having lost track of what he was about to do.

"Pet, you're okay?" Bert sounds worried.

Q looks at him. Why is he worried? Q shakes his head.

"No," he says. "Yes, I mean. Sorry, Bert. Yes, I'm okay. I'll–" he loses track again.

"I'll just get to bed now. Sleep," Q closes his eyes. "Sleep is good. Yes."

Q pushes himself away from the door. Bert nods.

"You know how to reach me," he says.

"Yes, thank you. Good night, Bert," Q answers quietly.

Bert regards him one last time, then nods and turns back to the lift. Q waits till Bert enters the lift. Then he closes and locks the door, leaving the lights out.

The large windows of his flat give a free view of London and its night lights. As much as he loves this view, he is too tired to really appreciate it. He needs fresh air. And something to eat and drink. And a shower. Sleep.

He is in heat. Not a planned heat. But nothing of the past days, nights? Nothing was planned. Except for his databases. Those updates. They were planned. Meticulously. He smiles at himself. Feels a certain pride. Sleepy. Spent. Tired.

Clothes off, then shower. Then. He cannot plan that far ahead.

Clothes. And bathroom.

He toes off his shoes and leaves trousers, pants, socks, whatever wherever it falls. Then, he opens the door to the bathroom. He needs to turn on the light in the bathroom, and winces at its brightness. He turns on the shower. He fumbles with the collar. Two attempts before he manages to open its lock.

Reverently, he places both leash and collar in the small box on the shelf above the sink. He puts the lid on it and solemnly stands still for a moment.

He is home now. He can relax. Leaning against the cold tiles on the bathroom walls, he waits for the water to heat.

Hot. And wet. He stands under the spray, relishing the warmth, the feeling of being enveloped, embraced. The cramps weaken. For now. But the delay will be short. Q knows his body, even if this heat takes him by surprise. There is still some time before it gets really bad.

As if the past twenty-four hours haven't been bad enough. He giggles. He can't help it. Too little sleep, too much excitement. It is not what he is used to, working the databases of MI6. Q shakes his head. It feels surreal. It has been surreal!

The call came when he was alone in ITS.

Normally, Q should have contacted Boothroyd as soon as he realised one of the double-ohs were in trouble.

Normally, Q's position and security clearance were far below what would allow any kind of contact with any of the agents, let alone one on a routine mission gone spectacularly wrong.

Normally.

But, it is Christmas. And as it turned out, Q was apparently the only one on duty in any of Boothroyd's departments. So, he took the call.

"ITS, this is a secure line. Q speaking."

"007," then a short break, the squeaky sound of someone running on a snowy road and heavy breathing.

"Q?" a disbelieving sound, before the man continued. "An omega? They put an omega in charge?"

Without thinking, Q activated the homing signal on 007's mobile, started the necessary programs on his laptop, and followed a blinking red dot on a map of Norway.

"May I remind you, M is an omega as well," Q shot back while zooming in on the red dot on the map.

Using another computer, he searched for surveillance cameras in an obscure Norwegian village, watching as three shadows closed in on a fourth.

"Well, she's a woman," came the cheeky reply.

"Turn left on the next street, then enter the third house on the right," Q said calmly. "That is if you want to have this discussion face to face with me during your lifetime."

A chuckle was 007's reply, and Q was pleasantly surprised when the red dot followed his orders without any hesitation.

That voice. Q closes his eyes. He imagines. Imagines his white knight standing right here with him in the shower. Talking to him in that voice. Slightly mocking, maybe even arrogant. Q's hand finds its way between his legs. He moans. His skin feels on fire. His fingers are fondling his balls, and Q bites back a sob. He wants to imagine, he forces his mind to concentrate. Holds on to the fantasy, his white knight standing behind him, soothing words, just the sound of them. The sound of a voice he has been talking to, given orders, joked with over the past twelve hours.

His cock is hard. His fingers curled around it, wet from the water and his own slick, which is now flowing in copious amounts from his arse. He leans his forehead against the wall of the shower. Holds himself upright. His other hand moves between his buttocks, two, three fingers glide inside his hole. He pushes deeper, not deep enough. The voice is in his head, encouraging, comforting. He pushes forward, needing the friction on his cock, his fist tightens. Whines as three fingers are too little, too much. He cries out as he comes. Falls to his knees, panting. He leans back against the shower wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. He lets the water cleans away the semen, the slick. He is in tears, but happy. His mind is calm, now, as he replays the past hours.

How he guided 007 out of the village, repeatedly found suitable transportation, which 007 equally repeatedly blew up or crashed, leaving a trail of charred scrap piles on the Norwegian mountain roads.

How Q disrupted Norwegian police radio, took down part of the Norwegian Internet, and caused heavy delays in several Scandinavian airports.

How 007 kept on with his sassy replies, and Q gave back as good as he got. Not once did 007 question Q's instructions, despite the agent's at times insolent retorts. Q rather enjoyed their mutual banter, the occasional ironic scoff, their reciprocal derision of each other's second gender–Q simply assuming all double-ohs being alphas. They were in this together.

How Q had stopped breathing when 007 fell silent after a particularly loud gunshot, drawing a breath of relief when he heard a terse 'bugger' in his headset.

How Q sent a short text, alerting Boothroyd to the situation, while 007 hid somewhere in Bergen, giving both of them half an hour to rest. 007 nursing a few bruises and dressing up his 'it's just a flesh wound'.

How Boothroyd arrived, and Q had already succeeded in keeping the Norwegian police off 007's trail, while 007 had taken care of all of the remaining 'shadows'.

How, eventually, Q succeeded in getting 007 to the airport of Gardermoen, boarding a scheduled, yet heavily delayed, flight with British Airways to Heathrow.

007 signed off when he had taken his seat in the front row of the plane.

"On the plane, Q" the smirk in 007's voice was almost palpable. "Looking forward to our discussion. You might have put a few points on the scoreboard in favour of your gender."

"Over and out," Q said, keeping almost professional. "Try not to blow up the plane on your way."

The comedown after that was almost physical. It felt as if he lost his best mate. Which he probably has, he surmises. No way, M or Boothroyd will let him debrief 007. Q sighs. Bothersome, these security clearances.

Tanner arrived after Boothroyd had left to explain the Norwegian chaos to M. Q tried to clarify things, talking about the 'shadows' being Russian agents hunting 007 and whatever intel he had stolen from them. He probably didn't make much sense by then. Somehow he had managed to keep his heat at bay while he was helping this agent, but once 007 had signed off, Q was hanging on by a thread to finish–

Q cries out as a sharp pain sears through his body. His heat is back on track. And with a vengeance. He turns the water cold, hoping it will relieve the pain and give him a few more minutes of clear thinking. He wobbles out of the shower. He finds some toast and bottles of water and places everything by the bedside.

It is dark outside. The bed stands close to the open window. Fresh air and a bed. With a last effort, he grabs his largest dildo from the drawer in the bedside table. His Pink Baby. It will come in handy, later. He curls up under the blankets and his last thoughts are with his white knight, holding him tight, lulling him to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

As Bond expects, Medical is less than impressed by his dressing skills. Then again, he was being chased at the time, and he actually succeeded in stopping the bleeding. Always tedious, having to explain about blood and gunshot wounds at airport security.

While he is being seen to, Tanner lingers close by, nervously clutching his papers. Bond wonders what has gone wrong this time. Using Norway as his transit route back to London is probably causing a lot of diplomatic havoc, but M should be on top of things. And Q certainly made sure things went better than Bond anticipated. Much better, in fact. Not something, Bond has come to expect from Boothroyd's minions, of lately. Having to divert to Norway to outrun the Russians was his last option at the time, precisely because he had been given a faulty and misleading report in the first place. He will have words with him later, for now, Boothroyd is preoccupied with extracting data from the hard drive and a bunch of USB sticks, Bond brought back with him. Apparently, the sticks hold vital information about a new weapons system, currently under development by the Russians.

No, it's not Boothroyd and his incompetent minions, Bond wants to think about, while the doctor and the nurse patch him back together. It's Q. When he answered Bond's call, Bond was in dire straits. Q taking immediate control, not even asking questions–it was a pleasant surprise. At times, it felt as if Q was reading his mind, giving instructions even before Bond realised he needed them. Yes, it is Q, Bond would like to meet up with, not Tanner or M.

Finally, the nurse is satisfied with the new bandage, and Bond receives his penicillin and pain killers. Tanner bites his lip, never a good sign, and stays silent–even worse–on their way to M's office.

Bond braces himself for whatever scolding might come from M. Indeed she looks like thunder impersonated, when Tanner opens the heavy door to her office.

"Bond," M barely acknowledges him, indicating one of the chairs in front of her desk.

"M," Bond replies, sitting down and crossing his legs.

Tanner takes the other chair, still silent. M looks at the papers in front of her.

"Q," she said, "he was your handler?"

"Only on the last part of the mission, M'am. I couldn't reach anyone else," Bond says, wary now.

Something in M's tone of voice is off.

"He's an omega," M says.

"As are you," Bond replies with a smirk as he remembers the first exchange he had with Q.

"Q is a male omega. An unbonded male omega," M's voice is dangerously low, every single syllable clearly pronounced.

Bond cannot hide his surprise. Since when does MI6 employ unbonded male omegas?

M sighs.

"Yes," she answers the unasked question. "Normally, we wouldn't. And I've had my doubts from the beginning. But Q was handpicked by Boothroyd from the Institute. A few years back, it would have been against the law."

Bond is well aware of the so-called equality laws. Heavily contested in the late 1990's, they have been challenged and watered down ever since.

"He is a genius in his field. Boothroyd was sure he could keep him in line, but after this stunt in Norway–," M shakes her head, almost looking as if she is actually sorry.

Bond's face becomes a mask. He owes Q his life.

"He did what he needed to do to get me and the intel back, alive and safe," Bond's voice is as cold as ice. "It was the incompetence of Boothroyd's other minions which made Norway my only line of escape in the first place."

M looks unimpressed.

"Tanner will investigate his actions. We suspect, he accessed programmes and servers without proper security clearance."

M looks at Bond. She fiddles with the papers in front of her.

"He is a security risk, 007. As long as this investigation is pending, I will have to detain him."

Bond keeps his features schooled, and stays silent, not giving away the smallest hint of his inner turmoil. Tanner clears his throat. M nods at him.

"Yes, Tanner. Go ahead."

Tanner bites his lower lip, clearly uncomfortable.

"Well, uhm, Q is currently in heat. It would be a good time to, well," Tanner looks helplessly at M, avoiding any eye contact with Bond.

"It would be a good time to kill two birds with one stone, 007!"

M looks straight at Bond. He grinds his teeth. They had this conversation a few times before, hypothetical back then. He draws a deep breath. M is deadly serious, Tanner is far more nervous and more anxious than he is letting on. Bond himself has every muscle tensed, ready to fight. His fingers dig into the expensive leather of the armrest.

"Just to be clear," Bond drawls, his eyes locked with M's.

"You are suggesting that I," Bond clears his throat, "that I rape Q, force a bond with him, to–"

M does not blink. She holds Bond's look. Her fingers tap on her desk.

"Yes," she says, as Bond falls silent.

"A male omega will always be a security challenge, bonded or not. But a bond, 007, will give you a much needed grounding in your work."  
As if to prove a point, she pulls out three of his latest mission reports.

"Your results have been less than satisfying," her eyes narrow, daring him to disagree.

"Of course, your omega would be dedicated as your handler on missions, and this Q is obviously useful for Boothroyd as well," M states matter of fact. "Look at it as a mutually beneficial necessity for everyone."

Except Q, Bond thinks. He flexes his fingers, lets them glide along the armrest.

"And if I say no?"

M shrugs.

"As I said, Tanner is investigating and Q will be detained until further notice."

Tanner looks up at that.

"You know, 007, nothing much would change for you. If you decide that Q is a mismatch, you could just break the bond. No harm done."

Except for Q, Bond repeats in his mind. But he keeps silent. He has used sex, coercion, and force before. He has a license to kill. But this would be different. Most of all, impossible. Bond has secrets of his own. Not even M knows or even suspects. If she ever finds out, detention would the least of his problems. Much more probable would be a court martial including a firing squad, one James Bond, 007, silently disposed off in the middle of the night. Never to be seen or heard of again.

M watches him intently. Bond clears his throat.

No. This is no longer just about him or just about Q. They are in it together. M is right. Q could provide Bond with a much needed grounding. But probably not the way, she thinks. All Bond has to go on are the past hours, in which Q has guided and helped him. Their shared banter. Q not budging, giving as good as he got. And keeping up with the challenges, Bond's escape route provided. Not much to build a relationship on, but deep down Bond knows that he trusts Q. The question is whether Q trusts him. And he needs time, time to explain himself to Q. To gauge how much Bond can give away of his own secrets.

Bond looks back up at M, with the smallest of gestures he gives his consent.

"Very well then, 007. Tanner has a set of keys and will give you the number of Q's flat. If you need anything, contact Tanner."

M checks the paper in front of her.

"You'll have the upcoming week off. That should suffice to allow for the necessary bonding time."

Bond stands, straightening his suit. Tanner hands him a set of keys and mumbles a flat number. M dismisses both of them with a wave of her hand. Bond leaves.

Bond is not one to avoid a challenge. Q being in heat might complicate things, but it's the one thing Bond is more than well suited to help him through. Bond is on a mission. No plan, no backup–and the outcome depends on an unbonded omega in the firm grip of his heat.


	4. Chapter 4

Armed with bags of food, and carrying other necessities in his duffel, Bond finds his way to the lift. He pushes the button for the top floor. He keeps a straight face. M's rant and subsequent orders were quite clear. She was convincing, and Bond scolds himself for being slow in picking up on her finger tapping. Repeating herself twice before Bond realised she was tapping in morse-code–he has to up his game.

There is a reason for the almost failures of his past missions. They have a mole in MI6, probably several, and Bond has been the main target until now. At least, that is what he makes of M's covert messaging. When Bond asks about Q by moving as if flexing his fingers, she makes clear that her order is to be followed. Q is an asset, but his gender makes him an easy target. Like so many others, M sees the gender first, anything else second, where male omegas are concerned.

'Bond your fuck toys, marry your soul mate.'

As the saying goes. As rare as male omegas are, their biology makes them prone to societies harshest sanctions. Their heats have been praised since ancient times. Yet, it is this one special trait which have kept male omegas from becoming citizens with equal rights. They are and always have been defined by their sexuality, in every culture known to man.

Bond has always wondered why people deem it necessary to oppress what they don't understand. He has heard all the stupid jokes and sayings about 'the bond' due to his family name. But a clear understanding of it? Doctors just shrug their shoulders when asked. Scientists declare other topics more interesting. Nevertheless, laws are made to make sure, people are kept safe from the male omegas. As if their ability to bond makes them a threat to mankind. What little Bond knows of the bond, it is the other way round. It's never the omega who can initiate the bond. And, the omega will be dependent on the person he is bonded with.

Bonded and bagged, as another saying goes.

The key in his hand, Bond hesitates in front of the flat. He has no plan. Tanner told him that Q's heat started while he was still handling Bond on his mission. Bond shakes his head. Apparently, Tanner had to quarantine ITS to keep alphas from entering the room. Q's guardian has already filed a complaint, probably giving HR a good laugh. Only Q's evident skills and knowledge about computers, databases, programming has so far saved him from being bonded. Until now. An asset, M tapped. An asset, which is seen as volatile and unstable. Making Q the perfect scapegoat or bait, depending on perspective.

Bond looks at the key and takes a deep breath. He could smell the remnants of the pungent scent of a beginning heat in the lift. Opening the door will expose him to the pheromones of a full-on heat. Intensified by the enclosed quarters.

He closes his eyes. The decision is made. He puts the key in the lock and turns it. He opens the door, and is met with an onslaught of fragrances. He walks inside, closes and locks the door. Tries to take shallow breaths while he gets used to the assault on his senses. It is dark inside the flat. The room in front of him gives a view of London. There are no curtains. On his right hand side is a small kitchenette. On his left a half open door, probably the bathroom. He can feel the humidity from a bath taken not too long ago. A few steps further into the room, and on his right is a small kitchen table.

On the left, he can hear and smell the omega. He is moaning and writhing on the bed, which is placed alongside one of the large, open windows. Bond takes another step forward, cautiously, and looks at the shadow on the bed. The covers are thrown to the side, and the body is moving erratically, pushing itself down and up, groans becoming louder as the omega turns–and freezes. There is a short silence.

Then everything erupts. A slick sound, then something hard and wet hits Bond's face, he falls backwards to the ground, hears an angry hissing sound, a shout, and finally the light is turned on.

Bond sits on the floor and gapes at the naked man sitting up on the bed. The man is holding a large, pink, wildly vibrating dildo in his hand. His glasses are put on, a bit askew. He looks as dumbfounded as Bond feels.

"YOU?!" they both say at the same time.

"What–", says the man.

"How–", says Bond.

They both fall silent, baffled. Then the man clears his throat. He turns off the vibrator, but keeps it raised in his hand.

"Clothes," he says, indicating Bond to move further away from the bed.

Bond does so, getting up and turning his back to the man, giving him some privacy. Only to realise that the window in front of him reflects the man and his very nude body. As he moves out of bed and goes to the bathroom, he puts an extra sway in his steps, clearly aware of Bond watching. The dildo is left lying on the bed.

Bond waits till the bathroom door is closed. Then he turns and moves to the kitchenette. He finds a paper towel to dry of whatever fluids were on that blasted dildo off his face. The smell is enticing, and for the first time since he entered the flat, Bond has to adjust himself. Not everyday he is attacked with an angry dildo covered in the naturally alluring fluids of a male omega in heat.

A cup of tea, for both of them. He looks through the cupboards and finds everything he needs. He puts the electric kettle on and debates milk before or after, decides on before. He finds sugar, and spies some toast on the bedside table. Begins to put the food he has brought with him, away in the cupboards and fridge. Anything, to get his head around this increasing mess.

Q is the omega from the club.

The man with a collar and on a leash.

'His' Q is the same man, he watched dancing at the club. He should have picked up on the smell. However, back then Q was relaxed and enjoying himself. Getting into heat, especially while being as stressed as he probably is, will change anyone's scent. Still. Bond is preoccupied, and he needs to pay attention. Even if this is not a normal mission, the stakes are high. For both of them.

In the bathroom, the shower is turned on. Bond looks around the room. The door is the only way in. But it seems as if half of MI6 has a key to Q's flat. Bond takes one of the chairs and bolts the door handles. He walks over to the windows. Now, that's much better. The flat is high above London, even a sniper will have problems getting a clear shot from any of the buildings close by. There is a small balcony as well. He opens the balcony door and lets in some more fresh, cold air. There are no other balconies on this side of the building. It's really a crow's nest, and gives Bond one thing less to worry about.

He finds some strawberry jam and some cheese to put on the toast. Eggs and tomatoes can make it for an early breakfast. Bond gets everything ready, fried eggs and tomatoes, a few pieces of toast. He can hear the shower being turned off in the bathroom. The water boils and he pours it into the two mugs. Grins, as he sees the 'Q' on the large one. A Scrabble mug, how very fitting.

Q reappears with wet, messy hair, wearing an old t-shirt and pyjamas bottoms. His elegant neck is bare. He eyes Bond suspiciously. As a kind of peace offering, Bond waves his hand at the table.

"Right," Q says over the rumble of his stomach.

He doesn't move. Instead, he takes a deep breath, no doubt scenting Bond. Q keeps his eyes open, and Bond is aware of Q's sidelong glance at the dildo on the bed. Bond's nose and the left side of his face still hurts.

"Who are you?" Q asks, still not moving.

"Bond, James Bond," Bond answers, adding, "you might remember me as 007."

Q opens his mouth as if to reply. Then he shuts his mouth. And takes the two steps to the nearest chair, plumping down. Bond relocates the mug and dishes, then settles down himself. Q looks down at his plate.

"No bacon and mushrooms," he says.

"Couldn't find any," Bond explains.

"Hm," Q acknowledges.

Bond watches as Q slowly grabs the mug and takes a sip of tea. He wrinkles his nose.

"No sugar," he says.

"Sorry," Bond takes the sugar bowl and hands it to Q.

Their fingers touch unintentionally.

Q puts sugar, a large amount of sugar, in his tea. He stirs it with the spoon from the bowl, about to put it back in, Bond just able to intercept. He takes it gently out of Q's fingers and puts it down beside his plate. Q takes a sip without looking up. He puts the mug down and takes the fork and knife. Slowly, he eats. Eggs and tomatoes first, then the toast. He keeps his head down, apparently focused on eating and drinking.

Silently, Bond eats as well. Drinking his tea, he wonders how Q can keep it together. The male omegas he has known turn into mindless sex addicts during their heats.

"This would normally be the time of knotting and sleeping," Q says quietly.

"You're a mindreader?" he asks, gently teasing.

"Pff," Q replies.

Q cleans his plate with the last piece of toast. He leans back in the chair, holding the mug in his hands.

"Now what?" he asks.

Bond smiles despite everything.

"You get back to bed and I'll help you through the rest of your heat," he says.

Q looks at his tea. Thinking.

"You're not here to help me through my heat," he states.

He says it without any accusation. It is a fact. Which it is.

"Yes," Bond relies truthfully.

"Hm."

Q takes another sip of his tea. And another. He frowns, worries his lower lip.

"I have a bad feeling about this," he says.

"Which you should have," Bond answers.

"Hm."

Q falls silent again. Drinks his tea and thinks. Bond clears the table, washes the dishes and puts everything in its place. When he returns to the table, Q is sitting with his eyes closed. He frowns and bites his lip.

"It's starting again?" Bond asks.

Q just nods, gnashing his teeth.

"Won't put on the shoulder pads," he eventually grinds out. "Hate those things."

"I'm not going to bite you, Q. And I won't knot you," Bond says quietly. "We'll talk once you're clear headed again. Until then, I'll do or not do whatever you tell me to."

"You're alpha," he opens his eyes. "How?"

"It's a long story," Bond says. "For now, I'm sorry you have to take my word for it."

"Bloody double-ohs," Q grinds out. "Can't even react normally to a man's heat."

Bond chuckles. At that, Q looks up at Bond. His eyes are bright, his breathing shallow. He is clearly fighting the initial cramps of the next bout. He smiles, despite everything.

"Clothes," Q sighs, indicating both Bond and himself.

Bond frowns.

"You mean–"

"Yes," Q insists, "I want to be naked. And I want you naked."

He actually looks angry, now. Bond smiles and shakes his head. He takes care of his own clothes, letting Q get an eyeful, which he clearly seems to enjoy, before he assists Q in getting out of his own clothes. Eventually, both of them lie beside each other, naked and under the covers. Q's breathing has evened out for a while. Bond turns on his side and watches him. His glasses are on the bedside table and his eyes are closed.

"Could you place your hand on my stomach?" he asks.

Bond does so, slowly caressing the taut skin. It feels feverish under his hand. He begins a soft massage, his fingers easing away the tension in Q's muscles. He moans, and Bond scents the fresh fluid pooling under Q.

"I hate this part," Q sighs.

"Shh," Bond calms Q, pulling him closer.

"My white knight," Q mumbles.

Bond wonders if Q has another white dildo hidden somewhere. He shudders slightly at the pictures in his head, considering the already substantial size of the pink one. Q begins to tremble, whining quietly, begging for Bond to help him. Bond's touches are careful, his fingers are soft and light as he fondles Q's arse. Q sobs silently as one finger enters without any resistance. He is fully open, ready for an alpha cock. Or rather the pink dildo.

Bond holds Q, hugs him, kneads and rubs him to help him through the next days. It's a good thing, the bathroom is close by. He relieves some of his sexual tension which builds up, but his focus stays on Q's needs.

Q moans and cries out. He comes, bearing down on the dildo inside him. Bond holds him tight, whispering small endearments, placing small kisses on his neck and face. Q is lost in the climax of his heat. His orgasms have slowly built in strength, his body is wrecked spurt by spurt.

Bond is wrapped in sheets and blankets, dripping wet with body fluids. Semen, tears, the clear liquids, Q's body brings about. Bond's head spins, as he concentrates on Q, pushing his own needs aside. He has lost all recollection of time. There is no tomorrow. Only the here and now. The next needy whimper, the attempts to make Q drink, eat. The brief breaks, when Q sleeps. Exhausted. And Bond cleans him, with a flannel, softly, softly. Learning the delicate features of his face, the tight muscles, the coarse pubic hair, raven black. The long, curved back. Scarless.

Bond wakes up with Q on top of him. The pink dildo is nowhere to be seen, but the bed is a mess of tangled blankets and sheets. Damp and clammy, and reeking of the stale smell of semen and sweat.

Bond untangles himself from Q without waking him. He walks into the bathroom and relieves himself. A short shower later, and he gets to work. Finding fresh sheets and blankets, unwrapping a sleeping Q from the soiled ones. He finds his mobile, notes the day and time. Two days, since he returned from Norway. The sun is warming the flat, despite the cold outside.

With that, he gets the kettle boiling once again. Tea and a cigarette, he thinks. He puts on a jumper. The balcony is large enough for a small table and two chairs. It looks as if Q uses it a lot, even now.

He puts his feet up on the other chair, while he smokes and thinks. The tea is steaming hot, standing on the table. M has given him an ultimatum. And per proxy, Q as well. They bond, or face the dire consequences. One week, after which Q would have to show a bond-bite, and officially will be tied to Bond for the rest of his life. Because Q did what was needed to get Bond home. He wonders if Q knew about the dangers.

He finishes his cigarette. Better get some food ready. Wait until Q wakes up. And then they'll have to have to talk.


	5. Chapter 5

Q feels like he's been run over by a train. He tries to move, but every single muscle in his body is screaming at him. Make that a freight train, Q thinks grimly. He takes a deep breath and frowns. The room smells fresh. The sheets and blankets are clean. Not like he just has finished his heat. Or. Was all of that a dream? He sits up, panicking. Grabbing for his glasses, they are right where they belong. On his bedside table. He puts them on and looks around the room. Hoping to find something amiss, afraid everything is as it always is.

Nothing. The room is as tidy as he likes to keep it.

"No, no, no, no," he says quietly.

He remembers. His white knight. He was here. In his flat. He held him, kept him warm. He–

"Q!"

Q looks up. There is a man standing in his balcony door. A shadow.

"You're awake?"

The voice sounds familiar. Maybe not a dream, then?

The man walks inside and Q recognises him. It is him. His white knight.

"It's you," he says.

The man grins.  
"I guess," he answers.

"Cheeky sod," Q says, before he can stop himself.

The man's smile gets wider. Q relaxes and smiles back.

"So, not a dream then?" he asks.

The man huffs.

"No, absolutely not."

Q closes his eyes and thinks back. The surreal feeling is back.

"You're 007," he talks more to himself than the other man in the room. "I helped you get back from Norway. Why Norway? Aren't they our allies?"

He looks at 007. He nods.

"I had the Russians coming after me. Norway was my last option back to safety," he explains.

"Makes sense," Q continues. "Hm. I got you on a plane, and I actually got the systems up and working again. After that it gets kind of blurry."

He frowns while he tries to remember.

"You were going into a heat," 007 supplies.

"And longing for my white knight," Q says, immediately cursing himself for not keeping his mouth shut.

"Yes," 007 says, "you were mumbling about that."

Q can feel the heat rising on his face.

"You," he whispers, debating whether he should hide under the blankets.

This is embarrassing.

"Bond!" Q exclaims, finally remembering. "You're James Bond, that's your name."

Bond nods, a small smile on his face. And now everything comes flooding back. The heat, the pain, the cramps. Bond taking care of him.

"You made food for me!"

Bond grinned.

"Yes, and I'll make sure you get something to eat, now you're awake."

Bond looks at him, his mood changing into something serious.

"We need to talk," he says as if it's a talk about life or death.

Q is a bit bewildered, instinctively he feels his shoulders. No bite mark. He frowns. That's what they talked about, he remembers.

"Can you get up or do you want to stay in bed?" Bond asks."I can make a plate ready for you."

Q considers the offer.

"Nah," he decides, "I'll better get dressed."

He sits up, stands up, and winces. Bond helps him into the bathroom and finds his clothes. Q takes a shower and freshens up in record time. Despite every muscle being tender and feeling weary, he is giddy with anticipation. He has no idea what Bond wants to talk about–looking serious and all–but him being here. Well, that is his wildest dream coming true, now, isn't it?

The food is ready when Q returns. And he is hungry. Digging in, he finishes several plates full of the most delicious cooking. Much better than he is used to, especially after a heat. His body is still sore, but he feels invigorated, being pampered by Bond. Or maybe he should call him James? As it is, James has seen him at his lowest.

As for now, Bond or James sits solemnly at the kitchen table. He has cleaned up after Q's food orgy and a fresh cup of tea is put in front of Q. The sugar bowl and two spoons placed right beside it.

Q waits patiently. He is ready to face whatever the world might want to throw at him.

James takes his cup of tea and drinks. Putting it down, he sighs.

"Q," he begins, looking at his mug rather than Q. "M is less than pleased with the way you helped me."

Q is–in shock. Why would she be annoyed with him helping James?

"She suspects you used MI6 servers and accessed systems without the necessary security clearance."

James explains slowly, without looking up. Q looks at him.

"Really?" is all he can think of saying. "Why would I do that?"

He is curious.

"You didn't?" James looks relieved and a bit sceptical.

"No, of course not," Q protests.

"That's good," James says.

Except, it isn't. Q has eyes.

"M obviously has no idea what you can do with the Internet nowadays. Webcams everywhere, even in that two-farmhouses-and-a-goat place, you called from at first."

Q shakes his head, amused.

"Honestly, of all the things," he giggles, cannot help it.

"Yes, I hacked into some of the airport systems to delay your flight and disrupt the Russian agents getting closer. And the Norwegian police might be a bit miffed as well, but I didn't break anything, while I was at it," Q explains.

"So, tell me. What is this really about?"

James rubs a hand over his face. He looks at Q, assessing.

"We are in a bit of a pickle, Q," James sighs.

Q can see that he is unwilling to continue, but James forces himself on anyway.

"M has ordered me to bond with you. Forcefully, if need be."

Q looks at him, disbelieving.

"You're kidding."

"Q, you are an unbonded male omega. You are the epitome of a security risk!"

James talks louder now, as if Q is unable to understand him.

"Ready to betray us if a foreign agent force you into a bond."

"That is preposterous!"

Q is outraged.

"That's why you came?"

James nods.

"But," Q frowns. "You didn't."

James shakes his head and sighs.

"Never intended to," James says.

"At least not the way, M wants me to," he adds quietly.

He falls silent. Q drinks his tea and walks out onto the balcony. He needs to clear his head.

"There's more, isn't there?" he asks, as James joins him.

The sun is setting and the sky is painted in dramatic red and orange streaks. It is freezing cold.

James nods and lights a cigarette.

"M suspects a mole in one of Boothroyd's departments."

James inhales, waits a moment before exhaling.

"Maybe more than one."

"I knew it," Q says out loud.

James looks surprised and Q covers his mouth with his hand.

"Sorry," he says, feeling anything but. "It's just, I've suspected something like this. For a while now."

James tilts his head.

"I worked as a temp for almost a year," Q explains. "Was in different departments. Some things were just off. Somehow, things got lost, were given to the wrong people. Nothing too obvious. Only, I was moving from one place to another, and was wondering why this kept happening. It felt systematic."

The sun is gone, and Q can feel the cold.

"Let's get back inside. I need more tea for this."

James follows and closes the balcony door behind them. He puts on the kettle and prepares their mugs.

"I can get used to this," Q says with a warm smile.

"You might have to, if M gets her way," James sounds worried.

Q gets his laptop and powers it up.

"Now, James, if they haven't locked me out of everything, I should be able," he falls silent as he starts up some programmes, the small screen coming to life. "I should be able to point the finger at the moles."

He types rapidly, command line after command line.

"Yes!" he says out loud, immediately covering his mouth again. "Sorry!"

James shakes his head.

"Stop apologising. Tell me, what's going on."

Q is just about to say sorry again, but stops himself. Nodding, he types a bit more.

"You see, James," he sounds triumphant, "since I suspected something was wrong, my database and security updates did more than keeping people out of MI6's servers."

He clicked a few more keys, then turned the laptop for James to see. Three pictures of MI6 employees were shown, together with their dossier. All of them staff members in one of Boothroyd's departments, all of them assigned to one or more of 007's missions at one time or other.

James stands behind Q, looking over his shoulder, as they both read through the files.

"You were never meant to get out of Russia alive," Q whispers. "Why do they want you dead, so badly?"

He turns and looks up at James. Breathes in his scent. This mix of alluring, spicy, slightly strange flavours. He makes a small sound. James looks at him, frowning. Q can feel the heat in his face and looks back at the screen in front of him.

"This has Blofeld written all over," James says quietly.

"Blofeld?"

"Long story," James says, avoiding Q's inquiring eyes.

"But," James continues, now sounding sad. "You're right. This should clear you from any suspicions."

He stands up straight and walks to the small kitchen.

"You don't have a whisky, do you?" he asks, opening the cupboards. "Or just anything stronger than tea?"

Q watches for a moment, thinking.

"So," he says, "still something wrong?"

James stops his search, leans up against the sink with his back to Q.

"No," James says after a while. "You're in the clear."

"But you're not?"

Q watches James squaring his shoulders. He turns around and looks at Q. His face is a mask, his eyes narrowed. He leans back against the sink and crosses his arms in front of him. Q looks at him, holds his gaze, as he turns his chair and himself around. His hands folded loosely in his lap as he leans back against his chair.

"Tell me," he says with a firm voice.

James rubs his hand over his face, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Q knows he has made a decision.

"I need the bond, Q."

James clears his throat. Q waits, patiently.

"An unbonded alpha in the field can be unpredictable," James hesitates, looks almost imploringly at Q.

Pulling teeth might be less painful, Q thinks.

"James," Q looks at James, merciful of this blatant attempt of evasion. "I might not know all the trappings of field work, but that is utter bollocks."

"For normal alphas, yes," James says, staying where he is, looking at the floor now.

"Okay," Q says, wondering where this is going.

James clears his throat. Stunned, Q realises that James is trembling. He stands up and walks over to him, leaning back against the cupboards, close enough to have their elbows touching, not close enough to make James feel crowded. They both look at the floor, Q is wondering when he last had it cleaned.

"I am an only child," James eventually begins. "Brought up as an alpha, always feeling and acting like one."

Q makes affirmative sounds, not interrupting.

"I was nineteen when I presented."

At that Q looks up. Opens his mouth and shuts it again. James clears his throat, but carries on.

"It happened during the summer holidays. My parents were shocked, I was numb, paralysed."

Q stays silent, but he let his arm fall between them, an invitation. James hesitates, before he takes the offered hand in his, holding it tight.

"They knew someone, a special doctor, who performed the procedure without asking too many questions."

Q holds on to James's shaking hand.

"I am an alpha, Q," James turns to look directly at Q, who looks back up at James. "I am an alpha, born in an omega's body."

Q takes a deep breath, smells the fear more than he can see it in James' face. He is good at hiding his emotions, Q thinks.

"How?" Q keeps his fingers firmly curled around James'. "How is that possible? The transition from omega to alpha?"

He keeps his tone of voice light. He really wants to know. James is dumbfounded for a few seconds, minutes. Q waits, he is good at waiting.

"You," James begins again, clearing his throat. "It's a simple procedure. You remove the uterus. Followed by a short hormonal treatment. I was lucky. Everything was over and done with by the end of the holidays. I was an alpha when I returned. I am an alpha."

The shaking is back, and Q moves his fingers over James's, caressing them softly. He turns towards him, slowly, giving James time to react, to stop him. Holding James's hand with one hand, Q put his other arm around James's shoulders and draws him closer. At first, James stands still, trembling in Q's arms. Then he returns the hug, almost greedily pulling him close, scenting him, burying his face in the crook of Q's neck. And Q holds on to him.


	6. Chapter 6

They hold each other. Q lets James scent him, his nose nuzzling into Q's hair, a tentative tongue licking the shell of his ear. Instinctively, Q tilts his head, giving access to his neck and shoulder, and James explores the offered skin ardently. His lips are soft, as they tenderly suck and kiss, giving Q goosebumps in the process. The silence in the flat is broken by his small sounds, a quiet keening, answered with a deep humming by James.

Their hands are roaming the other's body. Searching for and gaining access to ever more naked skin, tugging up shirts, pulling their bodies closer. An embrace which becomes a mutual rutting, silent whines turn into gasps.

"B-bed," Q stutters.

And James stops. Q opens his eyes, bewildered.

"Why?"

"Q," James is breathing hard. "Are you sure? This, you, me."

Q leans back, frowns at James.

"Se-seriously?" he stammers.

"Q!" James sounds annoyed.

Q looks at James and giggles. James rolls his eyes.

"This is–"

"Yes, James. Yes. It is serious," Q smiles at James, then sighs and takes a step back.

"I'm serious. Let's get on with it. I'll have to show up with a nice, healing bite-mark in five days or so? I've a first aid kit in the bathroom. And some disinfectant," he turns and saunters to his bed.

He keeps his back to James, but looks back over his shoulder at him, eyes half lidded. Then, he begins to take off his clothes. Putting on a show, every single piece of clothing is slowly pushed up over his head or down below his hips. He is taking his time. Moving his hips, letting his hand slide down between his legs, under his pants, as he turns around again. He is hard and he touches himself, closing his eyes at the sensation. His body is lilting, as he pushes into his fist, feeling the precome wetting the tip of his cock.

He can feel James standing in front of him. Q opens his eyes and smiles. James is naked, watching him with unabashed desire. Q returns the look, shamelessly letting his gaze roam. He sucks in a breath as he drops his eyes. James is aroused, his cock hard and erect. Taking off his glasses and putting them on the bedside table, Q kneels. He glances up at James, indicating what he wants, waits. James looks down at him, his eyes are wide. He nods. When Q touches his cock, James groans. Q keeps his touch light, gently probing the tight foreskin, before he leans forward and licks across the glans, watching James intently. Every touch is eliciting low whines, small movements, ripples over the skin. With his tongue and lips Q explores, plays with the frenulum, laps the precome. He closes his eyes when he feels James's hand on his head, stroking through Q's hair. This time, not fear, but blatant lust the reason for the slight tremble in James's hand. Q smirks, licks his lips. The fingers in his hair curl as he opens his mouth and pushes down. He struggles a bit, considering the girth of James's cock. Q's fingers are trailing its length. He feels the veins pulsing hard, the scrotum, heavy. Feels how James fights to stay still, even as Q begins to fondle his balls. The small sounds become desperate with Q's fingers tracing along the perineum. Now, Q sucks hard, pushing his tongue up against the hot flesh in his mouth. James pushes forward, fisting his hand in Q's hair. Q makes a protesting sound and pulls off.

Immediately, James pulls back. Q chokes a bit, trying to catch his breath.

"Q, I'm sorry, I'm so so–" James kneels down, apologising.  
Q shakes his head, waves a hand at him. He clears his throat.

"It's okay," he croaks, smiling.

He is pleased with himself. Getting that reaction from James, is so worth it. He sits up and hugs James close. He pushes up to pull James into a kiss, lips against lips. James groans as their tongues meet. Q's body is on fire, realising that James can taste himself in Q's mouth. They both push upwards, stumbling onto the bed.

Q gasps out loud, rutting against James. Their cocks hard, hot. Hands touching, grabbing at each others arses, lips sucking. James rolls on top of Q and sits up. He is panting.

"Q, we need–"

Q whines in vexation.

"James, bloody–" he pushes up against James. "Just get on. You inside me."

He tries to get friction on his cock.

"Disinfection, just make sure," he pants, "make sure you bite my bonding gland."

He turns around, lies on his stomach, rutting against the bed. Something cold hit his shoulder, and he whimpers.

"Please, James," he begs. "Draw blood, you need to break skin, bite deep."

He is short of breath.

"Nice," he puffs, "the bite. Look beautiful."

James goes still again, and Q cries out in pure desperation. He pushes his arse up. Feels a warm hand on his back, soothing him.

"Q, this will hurt you. You're not in heat any longer."

Q knows, but he doesn't care. He wants this. His hands turn into fists, grabbing the sheets.

"I know," he shouts into the pillow. "You're not in a rut. Your saliva not anesthetic. No knot."

He gasps for breath.

"I DON'T CARE!"

He sobs.

"Please," he whimpers. "Please."

The soothing hand disappears, and now something cold wipes across both his shoulders. The skin retracts and he knows, his glands are visible. Small knobs, ready for the bite. The warm hands are back, trailing down along his spine, massaging his buttocks. He feels something slick against his hole, a finger, probing, slowly opening him up. He pushes back, with a needy whimper. The other hand is stroking his back again, James makes small shushing noises. One finger slips inside, followed by another, scissoring. But Q needs more, knows he can have it.

He moans in utter relief when he can feel James lining up behind him.

"Yes, yes, please," Q whispers.

He can feel the pressure as James pushes inside. The slight burning turns into absolute bliss, as he is filled, James's thrusts are slow, careful.

"Are you ready, Q?" the voice is soft, sad almost.

Q nods.

"Yes, James, yes. Please."

Somehow, his voice is firm. He means it.

A body is pushing down on him, lips touch his left shoulder. Q braces himself, bites into the pillow. He will hold still, be silent. James needs this, but Q wants it. He feels the teeth. The searing pain, as skin is broken, blood flowing.

Suddenly, Q sees himself, tastes blood. His own blood. He is back inside himself, feeling pain. No, not pain, not anymore. He is light-headed, flowing. But he is not alone. He worries, no, James worries. He perceives James, his worries, his–his love. Q gasps out loud. He is alone again, orgasm ripping through his body. Fingers digging into his sides when James comes, grunting out loudly, his head buried in the crook of Q's neck, scenting, licking, kissing him, while he thrusts into him slower, erratically.

Breathless, Q just lies there. A puddle of goo on top of a wet spot. He couldn't care less. James has pulled out and rolled to the side. He covers his face with one arm, the other arm lies across Q's back.

"We need to," James begins.

"Hm," Q answers.

He can feel the blood trickling down his shoulder. There is no pain. The endorphins are probably still flooding his system. He can feel the bed dip, and sighs. He refuses to move. James returns.

"Can you sit up, love?" James asks quietly.

Q lifts his head. But no, he doesn't want to move. James chuckles, and turns him gently on his right side, giving James free access to the bond-bite. Q lets him do whatever he needs to do. The disinfectant stings, but Q is far too content to care. A few minutes later, he can feel the band-aid in place.

"Let's clean you up," James says, puts away the first aid kit, and returns with a warm, wet flannel.

Q now lies on his back, the wet spot on the sheets covered with a towel. Both of them too tired to care. James returns once more with a glass of water and helps Q drink. Finally, finally, both of them are back in bed. The lights turned off, James is sitting up against the headboard, Q lies halfway in his lap.

"I sent a text to M, with the names of the moles. And a short note on who found them," James says.

"Hm," Q replies.

"Oh," he suddenly says, "I'm bonded now, ain't I? Ha!"

James looks surprised at him.

"Well, if M's true to her word, I'll get your level of security clearance. At least," he giggles. "Maybe, M will find herself waiting at every single traffic light in the future."

He begins humming 'I like traffic lights…' James shakes his head, then kisses Q silent. Q opens his lips, tongues entwining–and Q flinches, pushing away from James and looking at him. James frowns.

"Q?" he asks.

"Did you feel that?" Q asks, trying to make sense of things.

"What?" James asks, confused.

"I," Q sits up, wincing a bit at the pain in his shoulder. "I, when we kissed, when our tongues touched."

He looks at James.

"It's like when you bid me."

"Did it hurt?" James asks, looking absolutely terrified.

"No," Q is annoyed. "No, it didn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. I mean, yes, the bite hurts. But," he shakes his head. "No, I was inside your head. When you bid me and right now, when we kissed."

He looks at James, wondering if this made any sense. James looked at him with wide eyes.

"No," he says slowly, "I didn't feel anything. Well, I was–"

"You were worried," Q interrupts. "Worried, but at the same time, you were, you are in love with me."

He looks up at James, who wants to say something, but stops himself.

"I could taste my own blood," Q continues. "Like I was at two places at once."

He sits and thinks a bit.

"It's weird," he states.

"I wonder if we can do that over the comms," he contemplates, relaxing back into James's lap again.

James is ominously silent. His fingers strike through Q's hair and it feels nice.

"It sounds like the bond," James says quietly, after a while. "Normally, I should feel it as well."

"Hm," Q thinks. "Maybe, maybe we should try it the other way."

James looks bewildered. Q sits up, again, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

"Me biting you," Q says, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. "Think about it. Maybe, we can both create half a bond–and together, it will work like a full bonding."

In Q's mind, this makes perfect sense.

"Better not try it out yet, though," he cautions. "We have to work out, how this bite affects me–and you."

James nods.

"Q," he shakes his head. "Let's get some sleep."


	7. Chapter 7

It is New Years Eve, and London City is erupting in fireworks below them. Q stands beside Bond, who still wonders about the past days. The bond-bite heals nicely, Q is admiring the scarring whenever he is near the bathroom mirror.

M gave them the all clear yesterday. No apologies, Bond thinks. She has given both of them a few extra days off, to ensure a better bonding. Or to better hold on to Q. Q, who looks at the fireworks with such happiness, every now and then leaning back against Bond, ensuring a touch, a brief connection. Bond wants to keep him safe, locked safely away from the M's of this world.

"Don't, James," Q says, "you can't continue to be angry with M. She doesn't care."

Bond smirks.

"My little mindreader," he says.

"Oi," Q protests, "nothing 'little' about me, thank you very much."

They fall silent for a while. They have talked a lot the past days. Laid plans for their life together, for their work together.

"I wonder," Bond says, immediately having Q's full attention. "You want to keep your flat, and I've no problem with that," Bond adds, before Q needs to explain himself.

"But," Bond considers his question. "What is it with the collar and the leash? You don't wear it at home, but I saw you and–"

"And Bert, my guardian, yes," Q nods.

"You were wearing it at the club, but Bert let you dance without the leash, without dancing with you."

Q nods again.

"Hm," he says, "put the kettle on, will you, James?"

Bond grins. A longer explanation, then. Q disappears into the bathroom, while Bond prepares the tea. Q brings the small box from the shelf above the bathroom sink with him and puts it down on the kitchen table. Bond follows with two mugs of tea.

"I know you know everything about the equality laws, don't you," Q asks.

Bond does, of course. He hopes that the future will bring equality for people like him as well. Q opens the box. The red leather band and the beautiful metal leash are in there. Reverently, Q takes them out and places them on the table between them.

"You see, James," Q begins. "This is the collar and leash, which has been worn by one of my ancestors, way back in time. It has been passed on from male omega to male omega. Or, and that is the interesting part, from male omega to the oldest child when said child became a parent themselve."

Q touches the leather and takes a sip from his tea.

"My father is the very first male omega in my family to be allowed to walk in public without being on a leash. The first laws were passed while he was a young man," Q pauses. "He told me this story so many times–he'll probably tell you when you meet him."

Q looks happy at the prospect. Bond feels less excited.

"You've family?" Bond asks.

"Oh yes," Q smiles. "I've three older sisters, alpha's the lot of them."

"And your parents?"

"Both alive and well," Q plays with the leather band.

"When the law came through, my father was one of the first male omegas to walk in the park, proud and alone. No collar, no leash, no guardian."

Q's eyes become distant.

"It took only a few weeks to realise that a law can't change people's minds. Alphas can scent a male omega without any problems," Q talks as if to himself. "We can change our scent, take suppression pills. We can pass as betas, but–"

He falls silent, drinks his tea.

"If we want to be ourselves, people can scent us being male omegas. My father was harassed. Constantly fighting off hands on his arse, comments about his heat, leered grins and looks from other people."

Q clears his throat.

"Mum and him, they both fight for the equality laws. For the laws to be put into action for real, not just for the show of it."

He looks at Bond. Bond places his hand on the table, palm up. Q sighs and puts his hand into his. Their fingers interlace.

"I got the collar and leash from my father when I was taken to the Institute," Q looks at Bond. "You know, the place where they 'educate' male omegas and determine what we can do for a living."

Bond nods, he knows. Normally, male omegas would be 'employed' as sex workers or in the entertainment industry. Properly bonded, of course. Their alphas taking care of their salary and life. Bond squeezes Q's hand.

Q smiles at him.

"It's not all bad, James," he says. "And look, I was allowed to get my own flat and work for MI6."

"A flat in a building owned by MI6," Bond points out.

Q sends him a look.

"Yes, well," Q says, "as it is. I decided, I wanted a guardian and I wanted to use the collar and leash whenever I'm out in public."

Yes, Bond thinks, that was just it.

"Why? The law says, you're allowed to be out and about like everyone else," Bond asks.

Q looks at him with a small smile.

"What did you think, when you saw me with the collar, leash and guardian?"

"Guardian or owner," Bond answers without thinking. "And–I didn't like it. The thought of walking with someone on a leash, it's–I don't like it," Bond repeats.

"Yes," Q nods. "But you did look, you even remembered me," he winks at Bond.

"And maybe, maybe you thought about why someone would put another human being on a leash? Why someone deems it necessary?"

Bond looks at Q.

"You do it to start people thinking?"

Q tilts his head.

"Yes, partly," he answers. "And to feel safe. Nobody ever touches me or leers at me. I decide who I want to flirt with, whom I take to my bed."

"Your bed?" Now, Bond is surprised by the sting of jealousy, he feels.

"Oh, James, of course. I told you, I hate the shoulder pads, but they come in handy, if I want someone to help me through my heats without the fear of bonding with the wrong person," Q smiles. "I'm no virgin, James."

Bond looks at their entwined hands. Then looks up at Q.

"Yes," Q says, "I will keep the collar and leash, and I will have Bert take me out and about–whenever you're on a mission. And yes," he adds with a wicked smile, "I have several dildos, which can help me through my heats–I'll introduce to every single one of them and their nicknames."

Bond smiles back at Q.

"Mindreader," he says, stands up and pulls him into his arms.


End file.
